Chapter 21
Gabe
“Great practice, guys. Really looking good out there,” Coach Keenan says as we file into the locker room. “Really great. This rate, we’re looking at a division championship. Proud of you boys. Looking good, Huang. That was a great catch, Merrick. Good scramble, Vedder.”
We’re all exchanging looks. Keenan is a good coach. No faults there. But this is weird. Something’s up, and since I’m at the back of the line, I have the entire team to see if he’s about to lock us in and flip his shit over some shenanigans — we’ve been good, but not stellar, and media likes to take nothing and turn it into something on slow days — or if one of us is about to get whisked off to his office.
The anxious part of me is going wild, taking the most absurd, impossible, devastating thing and running with it. Three weeks ago, it would have been that I was getting cut. It’s that time of year when teams, even winning ones, start to reconsider their lineup and replace the weakest links. I’ve done well overall, but I’ve also had my share of mistakes like anyone, and mine are more obvious than some other positions. I love being a center, it’s obviously a position I do well at or I wouldn’t be playing in the NFL, but I’m forever stressing about it. It’s my natural state. And I don’t know yet if I’m getting signed on again. This could be my last season.
That’s what I should be stressing about.
But my brain’s got its own ideas about what’s the most critical issue, and it’s spent over two weeks now fixating on Joss.
I fucked up.
I fucked up so bad.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
I keep bailing on overnights. The last two games were away, so that helped. I made up early practices and then actually did haul my ass down to the training facility at four in the morning to send her selfies of me working out with Merrick so I didn’t look like a liar. Then I had to lie to Merrick about wanting to get in better shape.
And then ate my shame with a dozen donuts before regular practice started. I nearly barfed on the field the second time I attempted it.
Dinner dates. Movie nights. Hanging around in her studio. I’m trying to act normal, but every time I come up with another reason why we can’t share a bed, she looks more and more rejected.
The worst part is she’s gotta be thinking it’s because of what she told me, and it’s the opposite of that. Or, it’s not what happened six years ago but what it’s forced me to consider about myself.
I am not a good guy.
It never once crossed my mind that she might have been pregnant before. I certainly didn’t consider that she might be grieving over a child. This whole time, I’ve been thinking that the way she reacts to anything baby related comes from a place of yearning, and it turns out it’s heartache.
And I never should have made that assumption to begin with.
I don’t know how to fix this. A vow of celibacy isn’t going to cut it, and not just because no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid our physical needs. I’ve been skirting around them with oral sex, hand jobs, even pulling out. She actually sounded distressed when I did that, which made me feel awful. This is not sustainable, and it’s cruel to Joss, who’s just shared something so important and personal with me.
But I don’t know how to fix this without losing her.
So the dread that fills me as I near Coach Keenan and he continues with his bland platitudes isn’t of whether I’m about to get cut. It’s that somehow everyone knows about my lie and there are cops in his office waiting to arrest me for lying to my girlfriend.
My stomach flips as it hits me what I’ve been doing might actually be illegal. The more I think about it, the more I feel like it should be illegal. I’m going to jail.I’ll have to admit this to everyone and most importantly, lose Joss, but nearly as importantly, lose everyone else. And go to jail.
I don’t think I can handle jail. Sure, I’m a giant and strong as an ox, but I’m soft. I have fancy pillows for my sleep apnea. The cleaning lady has to wash my clothes in the expensive dye-free stuff or I get hives. I’m not cut out for jail.
When Keenan nods at me and casually says, “Shaunessy, got time for a quick chat in my office?” I nearly jut my hands out for him to arrest me.
I give him my biggest, dumbest smile in the hopes that he doesn’t sense my fear. “Sure thing, coach!”
Everyone watches from the locker room — most attempt subtlety, but Blaise peeks out, bug-eyed, until Merrick grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him back — as I follow Keenan past the locker room and into his office. He motions for me to take a seat and closes the door behind me, and I feel like my heart is going to leap out of my chest.
The way Keenan leans back in his chair should be of some comfort. He’s casual. Relaxed. Like someone about to have an easy conversation. But now I’m thinking he’s hated me this whole time and he’s relaxed because he knows he’s never going to talk to me again.
I have to be green. He has to see that I’ve turned green. His grin proves that he wants to be rid of me and he’s going to laugh when I barf all over everything.
“Good season so far, yeah?” he asks as he reaches under his desk.
Irrationally, absurdly irrationally, I think he’s about to pull a gun on me. I really need to get some sleep. I’m a mess. “Six and two,” I reply, my tone lacking the depth that would convey any sort of joy.
Keenan doesn’t seem to notice this. “Yeah, that’s great. We’re already a shoo-in for the play-offs. And you’re a big part of that. You know that, yeah?”
“Thank you, sir,” I reply mechanically.
“I hope Sinclair appreciates how much of his load you take on. ESPN’s talking about how he’s finally matured enough for the Super Bowl, but I don’t think they see that you’re the reason for that.”
“It’s an honor, sir.” I taste bile. There are only two ways I can imagine this conversation going, and that’s him handing over a contract for the next three seasons or him saying that’s why he’s so mad at me that he has to fire me for being a criminal and then letting the cops in.
And that contract doesn’t come from him.
“You know I’ve been doing this a long time. Both pro and college. I never felt I was coaching children when I was at SC. But it’s different when you’ve got a team that’s just out of high school and no longer in their parents’ houses, living on their own for the first time and figuring themselves out. Someone said something they shouldn’t have. Someone got drunk and broke someone else’s Xbox. Someone slept with someone else’s girlfriend. You got me?”
I nod, wondering if these are universals or if he knows my life that well. I did have a habit of saying things the wrong way, and I did break my buddy’s Xbox on accident and it was my girlfriend that half the team slept with.
“I had to deal with those issues. That’s part of life with college kids. But I don’t usually deal with stuff like this at the pro level. You guys are adults. You’ve got families, mortgages, your own group of friends instead of just your teammates.”
I’ve got none of those things. He has to know that.
“So I’m going to make this simple. When things are going this well, it doesn’t make too much sense for me to rock the boat. This is not a rocking of the boat.”
That sounds like I’m not getting fired or going to jail. People in jail don’t get to play pro football. That’s not how The Longest Yard worked out.
“But I’m concerned about this thing between you and Allore.”
Shit.
“I wasn’t at first. You two are never on the field together. I was happy you guys were buddies, and then you weren’t, and it didn’t matter too much. But I’m now starting to think there’s beef between you and Morales, too, and—”
“There isn’t!” I blurt out. “Absolutely not. Morales is great. I promise I will do just as well if he has to step in for Blaise.”
“I’m sure.” Keenan nods, but his smile is weak. “But Morales and Allore are friends. You were part of that group. And it seems like you’re the one who’s not willing to work with Allore anymore, and since Allore and Morales have so much in common—”
“Dom is a decade older than Evan.”
“And their babies practically share a crib.”
Now his tone has a bite to it. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have thrown that at him like that.
“I’ve had Pruitt working with Morales to be his center. I can pull you when I pull Sinclair. Do you want that?”
I’d noticed Pruitt was going over a playbook with Morales recently but didn’t think anything of it. Of course I can’t be the only center. I’m as prone to injury as anyone else. More so, in fact. I take bad hits in every game because of the position I’m in when I hike the ball. But I’m not Blaise’s center, I’m the Jugs’ center, and I can’t rely on Blaise to carry me. He’s incredible, but at the end of the day, he was expendable enough for the Colts to donate him to the expansion even with me in tow. “No, absolutely not.”
“That’s not a threat, it’s an offer. I need to know how to keep this team running this smoothly.”
“You do not need to worry about this,” I insist.
“Then you need to let go of whatever’s set you off with Allore. I know you, Shaunessy. I know you’re not the guy to beef with others. Even if I didn’t know you personally, I can see it clearly throughout your career. This isn’t you, and you need to stop this.”
I sigh, the sound unintentionally frustrated as it rumbles over my vocal cords. I’ve fucked up just about every way I can with Joss, but the one thing I know I got right was pushing Allore out of my life, no matter how much that hurt. “I can’t. You don’t get it. What you’re saying, you’re telling me I have to pick my teammate over my girlfriend, and I’m not doing that.”
Keenan’s sigh mirrors mine. “So that’s what this is about, huh? I’ve gotten quite the earful about her. Emily Hess is not happy.”
“Emily Hess can choke on a dick.”
I immediately regret saying that, but Keenan only laughs. “I have certainly thought that my fair share of times. Game used to not be like this. You play well, you don’t commit any crimes, you don’t say anything too dumb in front of reporters, you’re good. Now we have to have social media specialists babysitting your accounts in case you accidentally drink a Coke five years after Pepsi ran an ad in the stadium of a team you weren’t even playing for at the time or wear a shirt that’s . . . too short, I guess.”
That’s Blaise, who’s gotten himself in enough hot water over inappropriate conduct that they had to add a clause into his contract saying he can’t do product endorsements in cropped shirts. After the Monster nipple incident this past July, he’s not even allowed in wet shirts anymore.
“Time was, as long as you weren’t openly fooling around with a married woman, no one cared who you were dating. And I want that to still be the world, and believe me when I say I’ve been going to bat for you. But this is affecting not just you and Allore and Emily Hess. We have hotshot contributors who are squeamish about seeing Ms. Page on the jumbotron.”
I scrub my beard, hating where this is going. Hating that Keenan is making it clear he truly does not want it to go this way. Hating what I have to say. “There isn’t a scenario where I don’t choose her.”
He stares me hard in the eye, but I don’t waver. I refuse to shrink and back off. I don’t need time to think about this or to reconsider. I’m not going to take back my words.
With a nod of his head, Keenan finally says, “That’s good. I like that. And I hope that means you’ll get it when I tell you she can’t sit by the sidelines or the tunnel anymore. I’m not saying nosebleeds, but lower visibility. And keep this thing between you and Allore off the field and out of the locker room. Now go on, get out of here. And keep up the good work.”